


ask me first

by originalblue



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 22:05:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3305057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/originalblue/pseuds/originalblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain America is pretty sure he's gonna die from a heart attack, because he can't breathe and the Winter Soldier is standing in his living room, and he's about 80% sure this is just a hallucination brought on by oxygen deprivation.</p><p>aka Steve had assumed the serum had fixed this too, but apparently not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ask me first

**Author's Note:**

> Written a few months ago when I was thinking about how Steve would deal with PTSD.

It was late. New York was never really quiet, even in the middle of the night, but the noise had settled into a kind of background hum that was somehow comforting. Steve's book was interesting - it was an in-depth look at the political pressures on artists in the mid-19th century. Natasha had given it to him as an early birthday present, and he'd been surprised to find himself really enjoying it. It seemed like all this time off did come with a few perks.

After dinner, he'd curled up on his couch and pulled out his book, determined to make it at least halfway through the book before he passed out for the night. So far, he'd only made it about a third of the way, and he was already yawning.

Then there was a rustle at the window, and Steve looked up, fully expecting to see a pigeon on the sill.

It definitely wasn't a pigeon.

Steve shot to his feet, dropping his book and immediately regretted it. Now he'd have to find the page all over again. He realized belatedly that he was unarmed in the middle of his apartment, and that the Winter Soldier was about five feet away, and that he really _really_ shouldn't be worrying about finding his goddamn page.

It had been almost a year. A year of fruitless searches and whispers about the Soldier, but no concrete evidence that he was even alive.

But then he stepped into the circle of light from Steve's reading lamp, and everything turned to shit, because now Steve could see his face, could see Bucky's face, could see the hard lines around his eyes, could see the slight unevenness of his shoulder under his nondescript sweater, could see where they'd bolted the new arm into him- _  
_

Steve staggered sideways, clutching at his chest and wheezing.

Bucky – or the Winter Soldier, or whoever he was now – stepped back, confused. “I didn't even touch you,” he said roughly, eyes flickering. There was no trace of a Brooklyn accent left in his words.

Steve didn't respond, leaning onto his knees. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe and he couldn't look at Bucky. This wasn't a dream, this wasn't a dream, Bucky was the Winter Soldier, and he was alive, but this is a different life, and Steve had thought the old one was gone, but it turned out it was waiting in the ice where he left it.

“I'm-” he tried to speak, but his mind was spinning and his chest was seizing up, and he _couldn't breathe_ -

He sank to his knees, putting his head between them and trying desperately to get his lungs to work right. He hadn't had a panic fit in seventy years, for Christ's sake. This was ridiculous. They'd stuck him in a machine, and he'd come out two hundred pounds heavier and the picture of health. This shit should have stopped. He clutched his head, groaning, trying not to let himself be overwhelmed again.

Hesitantly, Bucky dropped to his haunches in front of him. “You okay?” He sounded guarded, and looked like he was afraid to say anything at all.

Steve laughed, but it came out in a cough that wracked his chest, and kept coming, until his eyes were streaming and he had to wipe spittle from the corner of his mouth once his breathing was slightly calmer.

Having his head between his knees helped some, but what really helped was Bucky's hand gently tipping his head back so he was staring at the ceiling. He stared upwards for a long few moments, focusing on breathing, on the feeling of Bucky's warm hand against his spine and shoulder blades. When it stopped feeling like the world was going to reach down his throat and yank out his guts, Steve let himself look down a little.

Immediately, there were cold fingers tilting his chin back again. “Gotta line up your nose and mouth with your throat,” Bucky said quietly.

Steve glanced at him. “How'd you know how to do that?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He knew he should be more frightened – the Winter Soldier's fingers were inches away from his throat, after all – but honestly he was too exhausted to be scared. Panic attacks always drained him for hours.

Bucky's mouth creased into a twisted semblance of a smile. “The number of times I sat up with you, making sure you weren't gonna kick it from a summer cold?” He'd shaved recently, and the hint of fondness in his voice reminded Steve of the time before the war.

Eyes dropping away, Steve shifted so his back was to the wall. “So you remember, then.” His head was still pounding, but the black spots had edged out of his vision.

Bucky shrugged. “Some.” He sat down cross-legged, dusting his hands off on his pants. “Enough.” He looked Steve in the eye. “You're a goddamn fool, you know. Crashing that fucking plane.” His expression was less reproving and more exasperated, like he knew that Steve would have done it no matter what.

Steve looked away; it had been stupid, but he would do it again given the choice. “It was gonna destroy New York and everybody in it. What was I gonna do, let it hit? When I coulda stopped it?” He risked a glance back.

Bucky snorted, and it startled Steve a little; that was the old Bucky, not the Winter Soldier. “I expected you to keep yourself safe, that's all,” he said with a raised brow. “I know your ma never raised no kamikaze.”

Steve's forehead wrinkled. “You know about those? Even though they happened after we...” he gestured helplessly. “...left?”

The other man shrugged. “Unlike someone I know, I didn't spend __all_ _ of the last seventy years on ice.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out what Steve assumed was a phone. “And I know how to use the internet.”

Watching Bucky casually check something on a tiny screen with his metal hand was so alien that Steve blinked. “I'm kinda useless with computers,” he blurted out, seeing the surprise on Bucky's face. “I mean, I can do pretty basic stuff, like write reports, or use Google, but I just-” He looked down at his hands. “I don't know. Wrong time, I guess. I'm more comfortable with paper and a pencil.”

“Bet you were relieved to find out they still had those,” Bucky said wryly. “I saw a newspaper stand a few weeks ago and almost had a heart attack at how expensive it was.”

Steve tried to focus on Bucky's face; his gaze kept sliding to his arm. “I'm mostly just glad there was a future to wake up to,” he confessed, meeting Bucky's eyes. “And I'm glad I'm not alone.”

Bucky stiffened, but didn't move, and there was a hint of fear in his face now, the fear and compression that Steve had come to associate with the Winter Soldier. “You're an idiot, Steve,” he said, and got slowly to his feet. “I've been missing you for seventy years, and all you can say is you're glad you're not alone?” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, like the movement was unfamiliar to him. “They told me when you died,” he said, voice cracking. “They told me and showed me a newspaper that said you were dead. And then they stuck me in a cell and left me there until Zola got around to- to playing doctor.” He shuddered, swallowing thickly.

Grabbing the corner of the couch for support, Steve heaved himself up. “I'm sorry,” he said, and put a comforting hand on his right shoulder.

Bucky flinched and his left hand shot forward, pinning Steve to the wall by the neck. “Don't touch me,” he said, eyes burning. “Don't touch me without my permission.” He yanked his hand away when he realized that Steve was gasping.

“Okay,” Steve coughed wetly, “I'm sorry.” He felt the bruises at his neck, and wondered how long it had been since he'd actually bruised. He knew that it would be swollen and yellowing in the morning, and for some reason he didn't actually mind. It meant that Bucky was here, that he'd have _proof_ that he'd been here.

Bucky looked miserable. “Sorry, Steve, I didn't mean to-” he made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “I didn't mean to hurt you.” He flexed the fingers on his metal hand and shook out the joint.

“I know,” Steve said, sucking in breath and feeling the sting in his throat. “It's okay. I swear.” He felt like crying all over again. He hated that Bucky didn't feel in control of himself. He wanted Bucky to be comfortable, to not have to worry about doing or saying the wrong thing. But he also knew that it was going to take a lot of time before that was a possibility.

“It's not okay,” Bucky muttered, hands shaking as he brought them to Steve's face. The marks from their fight had long since healed, but they were still there. People thought the serum made him heal perfectly, but all it did was make him heal faster. He still scarred, just like everyone else. “I wish I hadn't done this to you,” Bucky said. He let his hands drop, and they brushed Steve's chest as they fell.

Steve felt his mouth go dry. Bucky was inches away, staring at him with eyes as grey as ice, and he suddenly looked more nervous than he'd been a second ago.

“Can I-” Bucky swallowed, gaze skittering off Steve's face. “Can I touch you?” They were of a height now, and Steve couldn't pretend to be distracted by something at his level.

But he could see that this was important to Bucky, that permission was _very_ important, and he nodded. “Yeah,” Steve said, voice sticking a little. “Um. Go ahead.”

Bucky moved forward, hands yanking on the front of Steve's shirt as he pulled him in, his mouth pressed harshly against Steve's. “You're so fucking stupid,” he said between kisses, as Steve let his hands be moved to Bucky's hips. “You're such a fucking idiot, twenty years together and you couldn't take a fucking _hint_ -”

“I was a little preoccupied,” he gasped out. “There was kind of a war going on.”

“Excuses,” Bucky replied firmly, mouthing at Steve's jaw. “I'm tired of 'em.”

“Good,” Steve breathed, “'cause I'm fresh out.”

That earned a chuckled from Bucky, and the movement sent a ripple of warmth over Steve. Then Bucky's metal hand found its way to Steve's belt, and Steve groaned. “You're too good at this,” he said against Bucky's collarbone. His knees felt a little weak, and he was hoping that Bucky would let them move to the couch at some point, hopefully before he passed out.

Bucky smiled into a kiss, fingers brushing over the blonde fuzz leading down from his bellybutton. “What, you think I spent all those nights out with only dames?” His hand slipped down, down, until Steve huffed out a breath and tensed, praying that Bucky wouldn't expect him to stay still for this part.

“I knew that's all you wanted outa me,” he panted. “Couldn't wait to get in my pants.” He brought his arms up to rest on Bucky's back, fingers only shaking a little.

“Hey, I waited seventy years, plus all that time before the war,” Bucky replied with mock injury, planting a feather-light kiss on Steve's cheekbone. “Figured that's enough.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Steve's again, and Steve smiled.

 


End file.
